


All Nice Detectives Like a Soldier

by Megg33k



Series: Working Out the Kinks [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Light Bondage, M/M, Military Kink, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:38:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1231897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a *very late* Valentine's Day present for not-so-secret-blog-of-a-fangirl/HallowedSpecter for the Johnlock Valentine's Day Gift Exchange, based on the prompt: “Army doctor John pulling rank over Sherlock.” </p><p>I hope this is what you wanted, darling! <3</p><p>Synopsis: Sherlock’s sex drive generally only goes into overdrive after he solves a case, but things change after The Bloody Guardsman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Nice Detectives Like a Soldier

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HallowedSpecter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallowedSpecter/gifts).



> Again, I'm so sorry this was so very late. I got deathly ill and was then out of town without much of any internet. You were my second prompt, which I wouldn't have taken if I'd known I'd get so sick. I just hope it was worth the wait. I will always worry it wasn't. <3

We’d just gotten back to 221B after the case of The Bloody Guardsman, and to be completely honest, I didn’t expect it. I’d already been living in the world of Sherlock Holmes for… well, more years than I’d like to consider, but I didn’t see it coming. Back in the day, we had a pretty long history of what I came to call ‘post-case adrenaline sex,’ but that almost always stemmed from Sherlock’s ever-present excitement over being the smartest man in the room. Nothing made his often-ignored cock harder than impressing a group of strangers, so long as I was there to watch.

The Bloody Guardsman, though… it was different. He didn’t solve that one. In fact, he had no idea what had happened or even _the vaguest inkling_ of how the events of the man’s stabbing might have transpired. When he trudged into the flat behind me and slammed the door, I actually thought he was angry. Sulking, pouting, acting like a stroppy child—the way brilliant consulting detectives do when they feel less brilliant than they’ve grown accustomed.

When I turned to comfort him—or _try_ to comfort him, as I never really worked out what eased his torment at times like those—he wasn’t sulking, though.  His back was pressed to the door, his head dropped back against it and his bottom lip held firmly between his teeth. The fabric of his trousers was already tenting, and he opened and closed both fists in time to some beat I couldn’t hear—probably his own heartbeat, if I were making an educated guess based on the cadence.

“Sherlock? Are you okay?” I asked, somewhat warily. I knew that look, but I didn’t understand why he wore it.

His head snapped up, and he growled through gritted teeth. “Say it again, John.”

“Say what?”

“What you said. Back there.” He jerked his head toward the outside, grunting as his skull once again made contact with the door.

“Which part?” I asked, though by this time I’d already worked it out. It was always better to let Sherlock assume I wasn’t quite as sharp as I was occasionally was. He’d start expecting it.

“To the Major.” His chest heaved with already heavy breathing, and if I’m honest, it was all sort of delightful to watch.

I stepped closer, straightened my spine, and got as near to Sherlock’s face as possible. “I’m John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Three years in Afghanistan, a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand, and _Bart’s bloody Hospital. Let me examine this body_ ,” I repeated, just as firmly as I had earlier in the day.

He huffed a shaky breath and grabbed my collar, crushing our lips together with a ferocity I’d missed seeing from him both while he was away and even after his return.  “And?”

“And you’ll do what I say, when I say, and exactly as I say. Am I understood?”

“Yes,” he hissed, already tugging the hem of my shirt out from the waist of my trousers.

I pulled away, slapping at his hands. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.” The way he whimpered the words made my cock twitch.

“Strip, then sit on the sofa and wait.”

He silently shed his coat and started on his buttons as I went to retrieve the necessary supplies. I hadn’t managed an STI test since being with Mary, and, well… I trusted her, but not so far as to trust Sherlock’s life to the assumption that she was clean. I didn’t really want to think about her right then, though. I wasn’t supposed to be doing this anymore, and my erection was starting to flag bit in response to my impending infidelity. Luckily, it sparked back to life when I made my way back to the parlour to find a gorgeous, obedient creature perched on the edge of sofa and waiting for me.

His hands were tucked beneath his thighs to keep from touching himself, and that restraint made my cock throb. Mary and I weren’t like this, and I think she was hyperaware of that. In fact, I think she understood more than she let on. She encouraged me to spend time with Sherlock and, between the knowing glances and innuendo-laden comments, I’m pretty sure she knew this was bound to happen again eventually. Moreover, I’m not sure she minded. Perhaps it was easier to let Sherlock indulge my more depraved sexual inclinations than to do it herself. I liked to think that was the case. After all, if I’d known he was still alive, I’d never have even looked twice at her.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice rumbled from across the room, and I realised I’d been standing stock still and staring off into space for quite some time.

“Yeah, sorry. Where were we?”

“Stripped and waiting.”

“Right. Waiting. For me.” I was off my game. _Dammit._

“What next, sir?”

That last syllable sent a jolt of electricity straight to my groin, and all was right with the world again. “Are you just going to sit there, soldier? Or are you going to undress me?”

Sherlock popped out of his seat and sauntered over. Sometimes I wondered if it was intentional or if that grace just came naturally to him. I suspected the latter.

Buttons and zip were laid to waste in record time, and I suddenly felt far more exposed than I was accustomed to feeling. It had been ages since he and I were… like this. Laid bare in front of one another, both physically and emotionally. We needed this, or at least I did.

I crossed the room to his chair and dropped into it. I only ever took his chair during these sessions, and still only once in a while. Subtle domination. He liked it as much as I did. I stared through his façade. _This is mine now._ I didn’t have to say it in order for him to hear it.

“Come.” It was the first time that syllable had left my mouth that afternoon, but it wouldn’t be the last.

He walked over and stood between my thighs. I dangled a pair of shiny, silver handcuffs, and he immediately offered me his hands.

“Do you remember the—”

“Vatican Cameos. Now cuff me.”

We only ever pretended I was in charge, and it was times like those that reminded me I really wasn’t. “What was that?” I asked, reaching back to thwack his arse with my open palm.

“Would you _please_ cuff me, _sir?_ ”

I choked back an unintentional whimper. He really knew how to make this worth the effort.

When I looked down to snap the cuffs onto his wrists, I salivated at the drop of pre-seminal fluid swelling at his slit and wanted nothing more than to slurp it off and swallow his cock, but that’s not how this worked. Not when I was ‘in charge.’ So, I licked my lips and resisted. “On your knees, soldier.”

“Yes, sir.” He dropped without hesitation.

“You know the drill.” At least I could take what I wouldn’t have the pleasure of giving.

As my cock disappeared between those heart-shaped lips, whatever thoughts plagued me before just disintegrated. The wet heat of his mouth melted everything away. The soft, pliable flesh of his inner-cheek slid across my glans and lit my nerves on fire as I watched the concavity of one cheek become convex with each down stroke.

He must have found my heavy-lidded, slack-jawed expression amusing, because he chuckled. And, if the vibrations hadn’t felt so fucking amazing, I might have been upset. I grabbed him by the dark curls and pushed myself deeper down his throat for the offense anyway, mostly for affect. He whined and sucked harder, which—in my extensive experience with Sherlock in particular—loosely translated to ‘thank you.’

His mess of curls bobbed up and down in my lap for a while longer with sloppy, suckling sounds emanating from beneath them, and I threaded my fingers through his hair while moaning quiet encouragement. I couldn’t let this go on too long, though—not if I wanted more than a few more minutes out of the experience.

“Stop and turn around,” I managed to say with more conviction in my voice than I would have imagined was possible.

“Yes, sir,” he repeated, spinning slowly on his knees to face my chair.

“Down.” I slunk from his chair and pressed on his spine.

He nodded and bent to rest his head against his forearm on the cushion in front of him, waiting patiently for my next move or command.

I traced the cleave of his arse with my finger, pausing briefly over the spot of puckered flesh that my cock had learned to call ‘home,’ and drew tight, concentric circles around it. With impressive restraint, I never dipped in more than the very tip of my finger. Only offering the basest amount of pressure—enough to taunt but falling short of satisfaction.

“Please,” he whined, pressing back against me in search of something more.

I chuckled as ominously as I could without sounding ridiculous and flicked my tongue across his entrance. “Please, what?” I whispered against his skin.

“Please, sir,” he grunted in response, and I plunged my tongue inside him to reward the good behaviour.

Even after sweating, he still always tasted vaguely of his soap, which shouldn’t have been a compliment. Yet it was. He used some high end, natural stuff that reminded me more of health food than a toiletry.

Sherlock writhed against my mouth, fucking himself on my tongue, and I flicked his prostate just to hear him cry. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t disappoint. He rarely, if ever, did. I used one arms as a bar across his thighs, holding him flush against my lips, and rolled a condom on with the other.

Once his whining was pathetic enough, I retreated back to his chair and firmly gripped the base of my cock. “Sit on it.”

He struggled to stand but eventually managed. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” he said, climbing into the chair, straddling me, and slowly lowering himself down.

His cuffed wrists slipped behind my neck for balance, and he kissed me hard as he started rolling his hips against mine. Snap and grind, snap and grind. Even when he was relatively unexperienced, he always seemed to have a good handle on how to work the body with which he was blessed.

I had to be honest with myself. I wasn’t going to last long. I’d almost forgotten how good he felt. _Fuck. How did I forget that?_

He leaked like a sieve, but I drizzled some lube down his cock just to see him shudder at the chill. Again, I wasn’t disappointed. I encircled it in my fist and used the other hand to grip his hip. After slouching a bit—mostly for leverage—I fucked up into his as hard as I could, and in turn, forcing his cock through my clenched fist.

After a few long minutes, a chorus of approval started to escape his lips, and I knew he was ready to go off as soon as I gave him permission. Hell, the look in his eyes begged for release, practically screamed for it. If eyes could scream. Which would be terrifying. _Shit. I’m doing it again._

“Cum,” I commanded, trying to get my head back in the game. “Now.”

And he did. Almost instantly. Which rather took me by surprise, as I hadn’t really meant to say it. I only meant to say _something_. But there it was in pearlescent, glistening streaks across my stomach and chest.

As well as I knew him, as much as I could usually predict his next move like only he could deduce the moves of others, he sometimes still surprised me.  I’ll admit, when he removed his hands from behind my neck and drug one of his fingers through the mess he’d made across my abdomen, I didn’t think much of it. At least, not at first. But when he smeared it across his bottom lip and kissed me… I can honestly say I didn’t expect that. And when whispered ‘your turn’ as he ground down on my cock so hard that I briefly worried one of us might break something, I didn’t even know I was going to cum until I was mid-orgasm.

_Jesus fuck._

At least, that’s what I tried to say. It sounded more like, _mmmmf nnnng_ … or something like that. And I’ll never admit that it may have been punctuated with something that sounded a lot like Sherlock’s name. That would be borderline predictable, which _I_ most certainly am not. Except when I am, which is pretty precisely when I’ve been fucked so well and so thoroughly that I can’t remember my own name and must resort to the next one that pops to mind. Luckily (in this instance) for me, that name is always Sherlock’s. Unluckily (in other instances) for Mary, that name is literally _always_ Sherlock’s.  When I said I thought she knew, I wasn’t really taking a stab in the dark.

Once everyone was un-cuffed, un-penetrated, less covered in semen, and slightly more dressed, Sherlock and I settled onto the sofa.

“Well, what was that all about?” I asked.

“Hmm?” He pretended not to understand, even though he always understood.

“I thought your sex drive only kicked in when you’d solved a case.”

“Yes, well… we all have our kinks, do we not?”

“I suppose so,” I replied. “And what would you call that one? For future reference, of course.”

“Uniform fetishist?”

“Mm. But I wasn’t in a uniform.”

He smirked. “You may as well have been.”

I nodded, because I knew he was right. “Any other… _kinks_ I should know about?” I joked, prodding his thigh with my toe.

“Not that I’ve found. Just me with my proclivity for military men, and you with your proclivity for—”

Since some things are better left unsaid, he never got to finish that sentence. We both knew what he was going to say. And, about an hour later, he proved he knew. But we’ll save that tale for later.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, as always, as encouraged. This hasn't been beta'd. Hell, it's barely been read over. I just didn't have the heart to make my Valentine wait any longer. Sorry if there are mistakes.


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